#hitman2

The garden behind the estate was a maze of overgrown hedges and marble statues, silent under the moonlight. The last trace dewy air still clung to the grass, and the scent of lavender and iron hung heavy between you and the man now walking beside you.

Your heels crunched softly over the gravel path as you exited the labyrinth together, arm-in-arm—but only in performance. He hadn’t touched you until now. But now that he had, it was purposeful. Convincing.

His grip was feather-light, yet there was an unmistakable strength in it. Everything about him was built for silence, for death, for precision.

You had just made a pact with the devil.

And now, you were bringing him home.

The estate loomed ahead like a sleeping beast. The grand façade of stone and steel lit up in warm golden light, its inner corridors already active. There would be eyes. Ears. And suspicions.

“Once we step through those gates,” you said in a low tone, just for him, “you’ll be part of my world.”

“I already am,” he answered without looking at you.

You tilted your head, studying him out of the corner of your eye. There was something unnerving about how well he fit beside you—how his movements mirrored yours just enough to seem familiar, intimate, yet detached.

The perfect stranger.

He caught your gaze and added, “When you left the hedge maze alone, I thought you were setting me up. That you’d call the guards on me.”

You laughed—soft, surprising, real.

“You really thought I was that obvious?”

“I thought you were dangerous,” he said.

You smiled, not denying it.

“I am. Just not in the way they think.”

He glanced down at you, eyes flicking from your mouth to your posture. Not out of attraction, but calculation. He noted the confident set of your shoulders. The way your dress hugged you—not for display, but with mobility. The slight weight hidden beneath the fabric. An ankle knife, possibly. Or the pistol he had already seen tucked between your thighs beneath the dress’s slit.

You caught his glance and raised a brow.

“Still going to kill me?”

“If I wanted to,” he said, “you’d be dead already.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Then let’s keep pretending you’re just here to meet my family.”

The front doors opened for you automatically as you approached—two security men in black suits stiffened as you walked in.

You could feel the confusion begin. Like a ripple. First in the guards. Then in the house staff peeking through open doorways. Then upstairs, where the old man watched everything from the shadows.

Agent 47 walked beside you without a hitch in his step, expression unreadable.

He had already memorized the entry layout, the blind spots, the security sensors. You knew this without asking.

Everyone was watching.

And you’d never once brought a man home.

Not in years. Not ever.

You paused at the foot of the grand staircase. Velvet carpeting. Crystal chandelier overhead. Warm light spilling across marble and the old family portraits that lined the walls.

He was here.

Your grandfather.

Leaning on his cane. Half in shadow. A wolf dressed as a man.

His eyes were on 47.

“I see you’ve brought company,” he said, voice like gravel and smoke.

You lifted your chin, stepping forward with just enough warmth to sell the act.

“Grandfather,” you said sweetly. “This is Tobias. He’s… someone special.”

A pause.

Then the old man laughed—a short, breathy thing.

“And how did this someone special survive our perimeter?”

You felt the tension rise beside you. But 47’s voice was calm, smooth.

“I was invited,” he said simply.

“Bold,” the old man replied, his eyes never leaving him. “Very bold.”

The music played low and classic, all strings and elegance, weaving its way around murmured conversations and clinking glasses. Golden light spilled from chandeliers overhead, casting soft shadows over the ornate moldings and polished floors of the Salazar estate’s grand ballroom.

She led him forward through the crowd with her hand loosely hooked around his arm. Every step she took radiated composure, but 47 could read her. The tension in her shoulders. The flickers of her gaze. She wasn’t walking through a room full of people. She was walking through a cage—one she’d lived in long enough to make it hers.

“You made an impression,” she murmured under her breath as they moved past a group of socialites whispering behind champagne glasses. “He already wants to know if you’re lying.”

“I expected that,” 47 replied softly. His eyes swept the room, always calculating. “What I didn’t expect… was for you to use the alias I hadn’t shared with anyone yet.”

She glanced up at him, lifting her chin to meet his height. Her lips curled ever so slightly. “Lucky guess?”

His jaw tightened. “Unlikely.”

“I told you,” she said quietly, guiding him toward the edge of the dance floor. “I saw your file…”

He said nothing. But his silence felt like a weight between them.

They paused near the refreshment table, where a few guests eyed them discreetly. Edgar hadn’t moved far—he was speaking with a man in a plum-colored suit, but his eyes kept flicking toward them. Watching.

“I don’t like the way he’s looking at you,” 47 muttered.

“Then you’re playing your role perfectly.”

A young man in his twenties approached her, all white teeth and wealth-drenched arrogance. “You’re the elusive darling, aren’t you?” he asked with a smug grin. “And who’s this? That you finally let someone touch that diamond cage you have?”

She tilted her head, unbothered. “Tobias. My boyfriend “

47 met the man’s gaze with a blank expression that made the kid falter and backpedal in posture.

The boy scoffed. “Right. Well, enjoy him while he lasts.”

As he turned away, 47 leaned closer. “Should I break something next time someone speaks to you like that?”

She smiled him

A slow waltz began to play. Guests moved toward the dance floor in pairs. Edgar clapped politely, then called across the room with that theatrical voice of his: “Let us see if your Tobias knows how to dance, querida.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, then looked up at 47. “Shall we?”

Without waiting for an answer, he took her.

Their hands connected, and she stepped into position—close, but not intimate. The difference in height meant she had to tilt her head up slightly. His hand found her waist, and she noticed the calluses along his fingers, the heat of his palm through the silk of her dress. The strength beneath that tailored suit.

“I’ll pass you the layout when I spin,” she whispered, lips brushing the air near his throat.

“I already memorized the patrol routes.”

“Well, aren’t you thorough.”

The first turn came, graceful and deliberate. She let her body press just close enough for a heartbeat before slipping away, her hand trailing along his shoulder. As they circled, her voice returned: “The keypads change every 48 hours. You’ll need the new code. I’ll get it.”

“You seem eager to help.”

“Not help,” she corrected. “Leverage.”

He smirked faintly. “Then make your leverage count.”

They danced another minute, their steps fluid and elegant. From afar, they were just another couple. But up close, they were all secrets and tension.

She leaned in just enough for another guest to hear. “You look like someone who knows how to handle a woman.”

She felt his chest move in a quiet laugh. “And you look like someone who only pretends to need handling.”

A voice cut through the air. Edgar again.

“Tell me, Tobias,” he called. “Where did you two meet?”

47 didn’t miss a beat.

“Venice,” he said. “She was walking out of a museum. I was walking in. Neither of us stopped.”

She looked up at him, impressed. The lie came too easily.

Edgar tilted his head. “I hope she didn’t steal anything.”

“Only my time,” 47 replied.

A few guests laughed politely. She leaned over him as a truly and deeply in love.

He lifted a glass. “Well, My granddaughter has always had a taste for art a bad one for man, and she always looks for trouble.”

She smiled through clenched teeth.

Edgar looked her over with deliberate slowness before returning his gaze to 47. “Be careful with that one, Tobias. She bites.”

47 didn’t flinch. “I’ve handled worse.”

That earned a chuckle from the old man. “Have you now?” He let the words hang, then added, more pointedly, “I imagine she’s… demanding in every sense of the word. I remember her mother was the same — fiery in public, insatiable in private.”

The air chilled.

She froze for half a beat, then reached up and wrapped her arm around 47’s shoulder, letting her body lean subtly into his, lips near his ear. It was a silent warning. Not to 47 — to Edgar.

47 turned to meet the older man’s eyes, still holding his composure, but something about his expression shifted — not aggressive, not overt. Just cold. Final.

“She deserves to be spoken to with respect,” he said evenly. “And so do the women who raised her.”

Edgar blinked, surprised by the calm authority in the assassin’s tone. A few guests nearby glanced in their direction, sensing the shift.

She laughed softly, brushing her hand across 47’s chest, as if smoothing a wrinkle. “Easy, love,” she purred with dangerous sweetness. “He’s just old. And drunk.”

Edgar gave a dry laugh, but the heat behind his gaze had cooled. “You’ve trained him well,” he muttered.

“No,” she said, stepping even closer to 47, her arm now around his waist. “He’s just not afraid of you.”

There was a brief silence. The kind that feels like the breath before a gunshot.

Edgar lifted his glass again, retreating with the poise of someone who knew not to push further—for now. “Then enjoy your evening,” he said. “Try not to make a scene.”

“We never do,” she replied, her voice like silk over a blade.

As he moved away, she exhaled, finally allowing the tension to show in the set of her jaw. She rested her forehead lightly against 47’s collarbone, her voice a whisper.

“That was the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him without a weapon in hand.”

He glanced down. “He’s testing you.”

“He always is.”

“And me.”

She nodded. “You passed.”

“Did I?”

She looked up, eyes flicking over his face. “Flawlessly.”

They stood there for a few seconds longer, their posture still intimate for the audience around them, but layered with shared silence. Then she pulled back slightly, brushing a hand down his arm, and spoke softly:

“I’ll make sure you get the new security codes before midnight. But you’ll need to leave through the cellar exit. It’s less guarded.”

“I’ll manage.”

She paused, then added — quieter still — “Thank you. For… saying what you did.”

He looked at her, unblinking. “No one should speak to you like that.”

Something unreadable crossed her face, but she gave a faint nod and stepped away from him.

“I have to do the rounds,” she said. “He’ll be watching how you move without me.”

47 gave a slight tilt of his head — understood.

As she slipped back into the crowd, leaving the impression of perfume and danger behind, he remained still. Watching. Waiting.

A string quartet filled the ballroom with something sweeping and dramatic. Laughter, glasses clinking, murmured names and titles.

She stood near one of the marble columns, speaking with a pair of diplomats when he walked in.

Handsome. Dangerous. And now, very interested.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the stranger said with a smirk, brushing past formalities. “You must be Salazar’s granddaughter.”

She gave him a polite nod, the kind that should have ended the conversation. It didn’t.

He moved closer. “I was hoping to meet you. You’ve made quite the impression tonight… and I’m very good at recognizing value.”

Her smile froze slightly. “Then you should know when to walk away from something out of your league.”

But he laughed, bold and smug. “Come now. A woman like you? Dressed like that? You didn’t come here to be ignored.”

She stepped back — subtle, measured.

Then a hand landed lightly on the small of her back.

47.

She didn’t even see him coming.

His presence was immediate, undeniable. One glance from him was enough to make the other man hesitate. The stranger tried to salvage his dignity.

“And you are?” he asked, blinking.

“Someone she came here with,” 47 replied, his voice cool, his hand firm at her waist. Not possessive — protective.

The man laughed awkwardly. “Of course. Just talking.”

“Talk to someone else,” 47 said. Not loud. Not angry. Just… final.

The stranger left. Quickly.

She turned her face to 47 “Mmh that was sexy” she said.

The old man, seeing them from afar, 47 noticed it, so he stares at y/n and leans down to give her a kiss on the cheek, one hand still in her waist, the other one in her jaw.

She noticed it the reason of his action, she smiled at him and just said “and that was cute” he just smiled back.

He stood near the old fireplace, his back to the flames, posture perfect. The conversation was civil — but the eyes around him were not. Two of the elder cousins, men who’d killed for less than a wrong name, had begun to circle.

They were smiling. Asking questions no guest should be asked.

“Which branch did you say you worked for again?”

“What’s your father’s name?”

“Didn’t catch your family line…”

47’s hands were still. His voice was calm. He could’ve dismantled them with a sentence.

But then she was there.

She stepped between them like smoke, eyes soft, mouth smiling — but the kind of smile that held knives.

“There you are,” she said, slipping her hand under his jacket like she belonged there. “You promised me a drink. Or was that just pillow talk?”

They went silent. Uncertain.

“He’s with me,” she said clearly. “Which means he’s under my protection.”

That made them step back. Not because of him — but because of her.

She pulled him away by the front of his jacket. When they were out of range, he spoke.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she said. “I wanted to.”

And then softer, almost to herself:

“They don’t touch what’s mine.”

Then they slipped away from the crowded hall without drawing attention — or rather, with just enough attention. Eyes followed them briefly, as if their departure confirmed every whispered rumor: the new guest and the granddaughter, growing too close.

No one stopped them.

They moved past the arched hallway, past the columns wrapped in silk and dying roses, until the music thinned behind them and the garden opened like a secret.

It wasn’t much of a garden — not anymore. The stone path was cracked, the fountain dry, ivy twisting up the sides like it had been trying to strangle the estate for years. But it was quiet. And it had a clear line of sight to the second-floor window: her grandfather’s study.

She led him toward the far wall, beneath a faded iron arch choked in dark vines. From there, they could see the entire western wing without obstruction.

“He holds his meetings there,” she said, voice low. “Tonight, he’s scheduled one. Something urgent. After midnight.”

47 didn’t speak, but his gaze lifted to the dimly lit window.

“I overheard one of his advisors mention it,” she continued. “Apparently, he’s sending someone away afterward — maybe to retrieve something. Or to cover something up.”

She turned to him. “You have until then. But you need to be fast. Once he leaves that office, the window closes.”

He nodded once.

“There’s another way in,” she said quietly. “My room is two doors down. If you go through it—”

Then footsteps clicked faintly from the far corridor, behind the garden wall.

They both turned slightly.

Voices. Laughter. Someone was heading in their direction.

Her posture stiffened. “If they see us here… they’ll ask why. No one’s allowed to loiter in view of his study unless they’re ordered to.”

“we’ll let’s give them a reason,” he said, already stepping toward her.

She barely had time to react before his hand slid to her waist and pressed her back against the garden wall. It wasn’t rough — it was measured. Intentional. She looked up at him just as his lips found hers.

The kiss was supposed to be a distraction.

It wasn’t.

His hand lingered at her waist, then slid slightly lower, just resting over the curve of her hip. She didn’t push him away. She pulled him closer.

Their bodies pressed, the stone cold at her back, the warmth of him overwhelming everything else. Her hands rose — one settling at the base of his neck, the other curling into the lapel of his suit. She kissed him back, slower now. Deeper.

She tilted her head, lips parting.

His hand drifted downward, over her thigh, stopping just high enough to make the lie convincing. His thumb moved in a slow arc against the fabric of her dress. The voices were closer now — laughter turning into a curious hush. But no one dared speak up.

They were watching.

And the kiss didn’t stop.

He leaned in more, pressing her gently into the wall, one hand braced beside her head. His body shielded hers. Her leg brushed against his. Her breath hitched. She was completely in the moment — and also painfully aware of every watching eye, every breathless second of improvised intimacy.

When he finally pulled back, it was with the kind of precision that made her stomach knot.

The silence between them burned.

“You really sell it,” she whispered, voice trembling just slightly.

He glanced down, brushing a thumb across her lower lip. “So do you.”

They stayed close, his body still pinning hers lightly to the wall. The footsteps faded again — the observers either retreating or too embarrassed to interrupt.

She exhaled.

“I was saying,” she continued softly, “fifteen minutes before the meeting, we go upstairs. Through the south stairs — not the marble ones.”

He nodded, steady.

“If the guards stop us,” she added, eyes flicking up to his, “don’t turn. Don’t slow down. Just walk like you’r….like we’re about to do something indecent.”

His lips twitched. “Convincing them won’t be hard.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze smiling. “You’ll pass my room on the right,” she said. “Door with a crescent etched into the handle. Go in, wait until he exits the study… then move.”

He nodded again, but didn’t move away yet.

She swallowed. “This won’t be easy.”

His voice was low. “But it’ll work.”

They didn’t kiss again — not yet — but the closeness remained. Her back to the wall. His breath brushing her temple.

And the window above them, glowing faint behind thin curtains, ticking down toward midnight.

They returned from the garden through one of the side corridors, their steps unhurried but intimate. Her fingers smoothed the straps of her dress, as if putting herself back together. She adjusted her hair, catching it loosely behind her ear with an elegant grace, her lips slightly smudged from the kiss. He walked just behind her, a hand low on her back, then briefly at her hip, as if he couldn’t quite let go. His tie was loosened, his jacket undone, and he didn’t fix it. He didn’t need to — the role they were playing made it believable. Urgent. Real.

A few guests lingered in the hallway, drinks in hand, their hushed voices drifting behind them. A few glances followed their passage. Curious. Suspicious. Envious.

She smiled at no one in particular, flushed and glowing, as if she had just come back from something forbidden.

By the time they reached the grand staircase, her hand had found its place inside his open jacket, resting lightly against his chest, and his palm rested firmly on her lower back. He leaned in just slightly, saying something low against her temple — no words spoken, just breath and closeness. She laughed softly, pushing her cheek into his as if trying to keep a secret between lovers.

The guards stationed near the top of the staircase straightened subtly as they approached. There were always eyes. Always rules.

One of them lifted his chin, clearly about to speak — but before the words left him, she pressed herself closer to 47. Her hand slid down over his chest, her mouth grazing his jaw.

“Let them,” she murmured against his skin, just loud enough. “They’ll be too uncomfortable to stop us.”

And she was right.

She turned her head slightly, addressing the guards with a breathless smile. “We’ll be quick,” she said. “Unless you plan on standing outside my door to time us?”

One of the guards coughed and looked away. The other stared a moment longer, then stepped aside.

47 didn’t thank them. He didn’t have to. His hand slid over her waist, fingers spread just enough to suggest he wasn’t planning on letting her go anytime soon. They passed the checkpoint as a couple too entangled to interrupt.

Once inside her room, the heavy door clicked shut behind them. The silence was thick, padded, as if the air had changed. She leaned back against it and looked at him, their bodies inches apart.

“We still have about fifteen minutes,” she whispered. “Until the old man starts his little gathering.”

He didn’t move.

“We need to look convincing when we come back,” she added, quieter, fingers brushing the edge of his undone jacket. “The way they saw us… we can’t ruin it by acting cold after.”

He stepped closer, slowly, until his frame eclipsed hers. “Then we keep rehearsing.”

His hands found her waist again, then slid lower, firmer. She tilted her face up to his. The kiss began as something restrained — just enough pressure, just enough tilt of his head to fit against hers. But it deepened quickly, like a fuse once lit.

Her back met the wall with a soft thud as he pressed against her. His knee brushed hers, and one hand slid down the side of her thigh. She didn’t pull away. She only breathed deeper.

“This… looks convincing,” she murmured against his lips.

“It does,” he said, voice low. “No one will question it.”

“Good.”

But she didn’t stop kissing him.

And he didn’t stop touching her.

Her fingers found his neck, then the collar of his shirt, tugging lightly as if testing how far he’d follow. His palm found the curve of her leg, the edge of her dress, and lingered just enough to hint at what else might be part of their “rehearsal.”

It was acting. All of it.

Except for how much they meant it.

A low hum cut through the silence. A car engine. Then another. Voices carried faintly through the thick walls — muffled, distant, but approaching.

She turned her head toward the window. “That’s them. The guests. They’re here.”

He didn’t react, but the moment shifted. The softness in the air changed into readiness — into preparation.

She drew in a steady breath and turned back to him. He was already adjusting his jacket, checking the inner pocket, silent and composed.

She stepped in front of him, smoothing the fabric of his lapel like they’d done this a thousand times. “You’ll be careful,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “And fast.”

“I always am.”

She nodded, then placed her palm lightly on his chest. “I’ll be here. Waiting for you to come back.”

There was no hesitation in her voice. Only certainty. A strange kind of loyalty between strangers.

“If you need anything,” she added, “if something goes wrong — make it back to this room. I can help you disappear. Or finish the job.”

His eyes locked on hers. The connection there was not performance.

He reached for the door. She followed him.

Before he opened it, she paused. “Wait.”

He looked at her.

She tilted her head. Her eyes searched his, voice soft but unwavering. “Good luck.”

And then, neither of them quite knew who moved first.

Their mouths met again. No heat, no frenzy. Just pressure. Familiar. Full. Like two people who’d kissed each other goodbye a hundred mornings before going their separate ways.

His hand came up to her jaw. Her fingers curled at his waist.

It didn’t last long. But it felt full. Real.

When they pulled apart, they lingered — their foreheads nearly touching, their breathing even.

Then he was gone.

And she was alone in the room, her back to the door, steadying her breath…

Already waiting.

The hallway was dark when the door closed behind him. No sounds beyond the low electric hum of wall lights. 47 walked with precision—calm, silent, exact.

The meeting had already begun.

Her grandfather stood at the center of the room, surrounded by allies, guards, sycophants, and enemies cloaked in politeness. But not for much longer.

47 infiltrated like a shadow slipping between seams in conversation, moving through walls, slipping past blind spots. Unseen.

Death came.

It was clean.

But not quick.

The old man understood—he recognized him just before it was over. Knew this wasn’t a business deal gone wrong. That this death was personal.

When he fell, there were no screams. Just a dull, final thud.

No witnesses left alive.

But 47 didn’t leave yet.

He moved through the private quarters with the same deadly grace, seeking the safe she had described. The code worked.

Inside: the pendant.

Small. Silver. A green stone embedded in its center—just like in the photos of her mother. The one she thought was lost forever.

Next to it… a letter.

Old paper. Signed by her mother, addressed to the grandfather. Not asking for forgiveness—warning him. Telling him one day her daughter would learn everything.

He folded it and took it. Not his to keep. But hers to have.

With time to spare, he accessed the private network. The encrypted database. She’d given him the credentials.

He found the files.

Exactly as she said. And more.

A name.

A man.

Photos—black and white, grainy: white rooms, laboratories, still halls.

A boy.

Expressionless.

Him.

Memories didn’t surface, but something deeper did. A pressure in the chest. An echo in the bones. Not rage. Not fear.

Just weight.

He copied only what mattered. Scrubbed every trace. Then, finally, returned.

She opened the door without hesitation.

He stepped inside and silently handed her the pendant. She took it with both hands, like it might vanish if she blinked.

Her fingers trembled.

But she didn’t cry.

Then he offered the folded letter. She opened it standing, eyes scanning slowly. The silence stretched between them—not heavy, not awkward, just full.

“Did he suffer?” she asked, her voice low.

“Yes.” Calm. Unapologetic.

A pause.

She nodded once. “Good.”

Another beat.

Then she looked at him again. “And the files?”

“They were there. Everything you said. And everything you didn’t.”

She let out a slow breath. “I wasn’t going to tell you. Not at first. I wasn’t sure if I could. But… I thought if you ever trusted me, even for the act, maybe you should know.”

He said nothing. Just watched her.

“If it helps you reclaim any part of yourself,” she added, “you can use it. Or not. It’s yours.”

He nodded once.

Then looked down at the pendant in her hands.

His voice was barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Soft. Real. “I didn’t do anything.”

But she did.

She stepped forward and hugged him.

At first, he didn’t move. But then his arms came around her, firm, slow—until his chin rested gently atop her head.

The silence changed.

The closeness became something else.

She looked up.

And kissed him.

The kiss wasn’t sudden. It had been building from every glance, every held breath, every word unspoken.

It wasn’t part of the plan.

But neither of them stopped it.

Her hand found the edge of his jacket, pulling him closer as his palm cupped the side of her face, anchoring her in place like he couldn’t let go. His mouth was warm, precise—but there was something uncertain in the way he kissed her back. Not from lack of skill, but hesitation. Conflict.

Like he wanted this. But shouldn’t.

She felt it too.

That tight pull of desire laced with caution. The burn of chemistry wrapped in doubt.

They barely knew each other.

And yet—

She exhaled against his lips, soft and trembling. Her body melted into him instinctively. Her fingers slid to the back of his neck, pulling him deeper into it.

And he gave in.

Their kisses turned hungry—not rushed, not wild, but needy. Every movement was measured, intense, as if time had warped around them. As if outside the door, the world didn’t exist.

His hand trailed down her spine, firm, claiming. Hers pressed over his chest, feeling the heat beneath his shirt. Every contact was deliberate.

His forehead rested against hers. Their breath mingled.

“We don’t have time,” he said, voice lower than she’d ever heard it.

“No,” she whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “But the guards will come up soon. If we’re not out there… we need to give them a reason to believe we were… busy.”

He looked at her. No smile. But a glint of understanding.

Of agreement.

She tugged her dress strap off her shoulder.

He pulled his tie loose, not breaking eye contact.

Clothes began to fall in lazy, intentional trails.

She tilted her head to the side, exposing her neck. “Leave a mark,” she said, breathless. “They need to see it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

His lips met her neck in a slow, scorching press, just below her ear—then lower. She gasped, quietly, when he began to suck, not too hard, but deep enough to leave heat blooming beneath her skin. Her fingers curled around his shoulder instinctively, holding on.

She’d told him to leave a mark.

But this—this didn’t feel like strategy anymore.

The sound she made when he dragged his mouth across her throat made him falter for half a second. Then he kept going, slower now, more deliberate. As if testing how far they’d let this go.

His hand slid around her waist, pulling her in flush. She felt everything—his control, his restraint, and the tension coiled just beneath it. She swallowed, and he felt the movement against his lips.

Her voice was a whisper. “They’ll be here soon.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he kissed lower, right where her pulse beat strongest, and this time she let out a real sound—something soft, high, breathless. Her hips twitched toward him, subtle, involuntary.

“Then we give them something to walk into,” he murmured against her skin.

And before she could respond—

He gripped the back of her thighs and lifted her clean off the ground.

She gasped, arms wrapping around his shoulders, legs instinctively circling his waist. Her dress slid high over her thighs as he carried her toward the bed. Every step was deliberate, his hands firm under her legs, holding her like he had no intention of letting go.

“Trust me,” he said, low, just as he sat down at the edge of the bed—with her still on him, straddling his lap.

She shifted to adjust, and the motion made them both inhale sharply.

Their eyes met.

Whatever had been uncertain between them… cracked.

Her hands framed his face, pulling him into a kiss that felt nothing like an act. Their mouths moved in rhythm, open and needy, lips parting again and again. She rocked forward slowly, and the friction between them made her whimper into his mouth.

His grip on her thighs tightened.

“You’re not faking that,” he murmured.

“Neither are you,” she whispered back, dragging her mouth along his jaw. Her hair brushed against his scalp, soft and teasing, as her hips rolled again—slower this time, testing.

His breath stuttered.

He dropped his head to her shoulder, lips finding her skin again, and bit—just once, enough to pull a small cry from her lips. She arched into him, her hands in constant motion—his shoulders, his neck, his back—pulling, grounding, needing.

He kissed down her collarbone, and she tilted her head back, moaning softly. The pace was still controlled, but the edge was fraying.

His hands roamed up her sides, thumbs brushing the curve of her ribs. Her dress slipped lower, straps loose and forgotten. His mouth returned to her chest, sucking another mark near the neckline.

She rolled her hips again, this time slower, dragging friction between them so perfectly it stole the air from her lungs. He cursed under his breath.

Then—footsteps. Voices. Shouting.

Her eyes widened.

And without a word, they fell into the act.

She moaned—loud, messy, completely unignorable—as she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and moved against him, deliberately.

He groaned in return, deep and rough, gripping her waist and pulling her tighter, letting the bed creak beneath them. Her head fell to his shoulder, hair wild around their faces, her lips moving against his skin, kissing, sucking, biting—leaving no doubt.

The door burst open.

“What the—¡”

“Oh—fuck, sorry—¡”

“Close it! Shut it now!”

She moaned again, louder.

The door slammed. Shouts outside. More footsteps. And then—silence.

Only their panting breaths remained.

She was still in his lap. He was still inside the haze.

Her eyes met his.

Something dangerous passed between them.

Neither of them moved.

Then—

She shifted again. A slow grind, just to test.

He exhaled like it hurt. His grip flexed.

She smiled. “They’re gone.”

He stood.

Still holding her.

Still inside that tension.

Then he laid her down on the bed—gently, but with purpose—and came over her.

This time, they didn’t stop.

Her body trembled as she took him in, inch by inch.

Every muscle in her thighs clenched, breath catching in her throat. She felt every stretch, every slow slide, like her body was relearning how to breathe around the overwhelming heat of him. Her palms braced on his chest, fingers spread, feeling the way his heart pounded beneath her hands.

47 exhaled through his nose, sharp and low. His grip on her waist tightened, fingers digging in as if anchoring himself in the reality of her—of this. His mouth hovered near her collarbone, lips parted, barely touching skin as she settled fully into his lap.

They stayed still for a moment. Just breathing.

Her forehead came to rest against his, eyes closed, mouths close enough to share the same trembling air.

And then she moved.

Slow. Intimate. A subtle roll of her hips that made him groan low in his throat. His hands slid up her back, over her shoulder blades, then down again to cradle her ass, guiding her into a deeper rhythm.

She gasped as the motion sent a wave of pressure through her core—sharp, exquisite. Her head tilted back, hair cascading behind her, exposing the line of her neck. He leaned in, his mouth tracing that same path he’d started before, tongue dragging softly against her skin before his teeth grazed her pulse point again.

“You said to leave a mark,” he murmured, voice rough.

Her laugh was breathless. “I meant one.”

He sucked hard at the curve of her throat anyway, and she moaned—high and involuntary. Her hips bucked forward as a tremor ran down her spine.

They found a rhythm then—slow, sensual, unhurried but deep. She rode him with a mix of control and surrender, hands tangled behind his neck, grounding herself in the feel of his smooth scalp, the strength of his body, the way he responded to every shift of hers.

Each thrust made her breath falter.

Each thrust made his jaw clench.

When she began to tremble, he flipped them—fluid and strong. She landed softly on her back, the sheets cool against her skin. He loomed over her, kissing down her neck, her chest, pausing to run his tongue slowly over one nipple before sucking it into his mouth. She arched up into him, fingers curling in the sheets, the sensation making her legs fall open wider around his waist.

He pushed in again—slow and deep, watching her face as he did. Her lips parted in a silent gasp, eyes fluttering shut. She felt full. Grounded. Undone.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice gravel.

She did.

He moved with long, deliberate strokes—grinding his hips just enough to drag friction across every nerve. Her fingers clawed lightly at his back, one hand sliding up to cradle the side of his face. His mouth met hers again, softer this time. Slower. Almost tender.

Every thrust was measured. Every kiss purposeful.

They moved together like they weren’t rushing toward release—but savoring the unraveling. Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer, deeper. He growled softly in response, one hand slipping beneath her thigh to lift her hips at a new angle.

She cried out—a broken, breathy sound. Her nails dug into his shoulders.

He was everywhere. Inside her, against her, all around her. Her skin burned where he touched. Her heart raced. Her body tightened. Pleasure was curling in her belly, deep and inevitable.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.

His lips brushed her ear. “I won’t.”

He picked up the pace—still not frantic, but stronger. Sharper. She clung to him, every motion blurring the lines between them. Her moans turned softer, higher. She was close. So close it made her tremble.

“I—” she gasped, “I can’t—”

He kissed her jaw, her temple, his own breath ragged. “Yes, you can.”

And she did.

Her whole body arched beneath him, back lifting from the sheets as the pleasure snapped through her. She cried out his name—half-choked, half-moan—as the orgasm tore through her, pulsing and full, toes curling, chest heaving.

He followed with a low groan, pushing deep one final time. His release hit with a force that made him tremble above her, muscles taut, hands gripping the sheets on either side of her head.

And then—

Stillness.

Breathless. Sweaty. Shaken.

He stayed above her for a moment longer, their foreheads touching again. Her hand cradled the back of his neck, her thumb brushing lightly over the warm skin there. His eyes were closed. His breathing slowed.

It was quiet now.

The air between them was thick with more than just what had happened—it was something heavier. Something they hadn’t planned for.

She opened her mouth to speak.

But didn’t.

He pulled out slowly, carefully, making her shiver. Then he lay beside her, still close, still watching.

The silence lingered.

Warm. Heavy.

She lay there beside him, chest rising and falling slowly, her fingers still brushing lightly over his ribs as if she wasn’t ready to let go of the moment. Of him.

47 sat at the edge of the bed now, shoulders bare, back to her. The muscles along his spine moved with every breath—controlled, steady. His pants were already on, his shirt still hanging open as he rolled his sleeves back into place with military precision.

But his mind was anything but calm.

She watched him.

Not as a killer.

Not as a weapon.

But as a man.

He glanced over his shoulder, as if feeling her gaze. Their eyes met.

“What?” he asked, voice lower than usual.

She shrugged softly. “You don’t look like someone who regrets it.”

“I don’t,” he said, almost before she finished. “I’m just… recalibrating.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “Always calculating.”

He turned toward her, half-dressed and beautiful in a way she hadn’t expected. Vulnerable—not because he was weak, but because he had chosen not to hide.

“You shouldn’t go back downstairs,” he said.

She sat up slightly, drawing the bedsheet with her. “Why? To finish the show?”

“No,” he said. His eyes stayed on hers. “Because you don’t belong here.”

She blinked. Slowly. “I grew up here.”

“You survived here,” he corrected. “You adapted. Played their games to stay alive. But this place… this family… it’s poison.”

She looked down. Said nothing.

He stood, walked to where her pendant—the one from her mother—sat on the nightstand. He held it in his palm, then reached out and placed it gently in hers.

“I retrieved this from the safe,” he said. “And the files you told me about. They’re backed up. Hidden.”

She curled her fingers around the pendant, eyes suddenly misting. It was the one thing she thought she’d never see again.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he added. “But I’m leaving tonight. Once the chaos begins.”

She looked up, startled.

“You should come with me.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than any silence before.

“You’re serious.”

“I don’t offer this lightly,” he said. “You’re resourceful. Dangerous. But you’re not cruel. And you’re not your family.”

Her throat tightened. Her mind raced. But her body—the part of her still sore and humming with the memory of him—already knew the answer.

She stood, letting the sheet fall as she moved. She dressed quickly, no games now. Just truth. Just choice.

He buckled his belt, holstered his sidearm. He glanced at her again once she was fully dressed, hair a little messy, cheeks flushed, but her eyes clear.

“Tell me where,” she said.

His jaw tensed, just slightly—but his eyes softened.

“I’ll show you.”

And with that, they slipped out of the room together.

Not as assassin and target.

But as something else.

Two ghosts walking away from a haunted house.